


Mere Mortals

by second_skin



Series: Crossroads (Mystrade; Greg Comes Out) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coming Out, Developing Relationship, Lestrade-centric, Love, M/M, Mortality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2012-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Greg has always known he had to come out, had to be honest with Molly, his colleagues, himself. The time has come.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mere Mortals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fengirl88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/gifts).



> _Brief series written for fengirl88, with love._

Mycroft stood when the doctor entered the room--John and Sherlock's room.

He dropped back into his seat as the information--and the gift of a smile--moved across the surgeon's lips.

_Soon. All signs are very good. Both. Survival. Recovery. Scars, yes. No permanent damage: brains, lungs, hearts._

Lestrade stood just outside the room. Holding his breath. Straining to hear the murmured words. Sherlock had been back from the grave almost a year, and now the pair of idiots had got themselves very nearly blown to bits chasing neo-Nazis with guns and grenades through the sewers of London, like some damned cartoon superheroes. After Sherlock's resurrection, Lestrade thought he'd spent all the emotions he had--all he'd been allotted for this life and the next. Anger and joy. Fury and gratitude. But now they came rushing back again--a flood of feelings--hot, bitter, and piercing.

He turned on his heel and exited through the revolving door that led to a green patch and a bench beyond the pavement. The stars were hidden by cloudcover but the glow of the hospital's lights illuminated every blade of grass and pebble in the park. Lestrade sat down, covered his eyes with one hand, and wept.

Mycroft made calls. Mummy. Mrs. Hudson. Anthea. Molly. Harry. "Yes, yes. So very, very good. Good news. Very good. Visitors are welcome on Friday."

* * * * *

"Greg, are you all right?"

"I'm sorry. Shit. I'm sorry--stupid to break down like this . . ."

"Nonsense. I understand. Such a great relief, isn't it?"

"Yeah. I guess that's it." Lestrade wiped his face with his sleeve. "You must be tired?"

"Yes. I am. Indeed."

"We should both sleep. Tomorrow the work goes on, the investigation . . . "

"May I offer you a ride home?"

"Yeah. That would be good. Thanks."

* * * * *

The two men sat in silence in the back seat of Mycroft's car. The rumble of the engine and a radio announcer's eulogy for melting Arctic sea ice was soothing. Gradually in both their heads the din of explosions, falling shards of metal and concrete, and John's demands ("Where is he? Find him. Find him, godammit! Take me to Sherlock now.") subsided.

They both closed their eyes. Mycroft felt the thumping kettle drum in his chest, and wondered if he should ask or keep silent. Tonight it was probably not right, not appropriate.

The traffic was heavy. Time seemed suspended.

After fifteen minutes of the silence, Mycroft reached for Lestrade's hand and squeezed it tight. Rubbed his thumb across the warm, tender wrist. Heard himself say out loud, too tired to edit his thoughts, "Will you come home with me? I need . . ."

"Yes."

* * * * *

Just inside the front door, Greg's kiss was gentle, like their first. His lips fluttered like moths over Mycroft's eyelids and cheeks. Both men tugged off jackets and unbuttoned shirts.

The policeman paused, and five heartbeats elapsed before he brushed wet lips across Mycroft's, sighing as they parted, "I . . . I . . ."

And so Mycroft knew something was different, something new was happening because Greg never spoke--not even a whispered curse or plea--when they made love. Mycroft, closeted Romantic, liked to think the movement of the man's hands and hips, the look and taste and feel of him communicated volumes of poetry. And so they didn't need words, certainly not foolish clichés.

It was obvious when Greg needed to release his fear or anger into Mycroft's body. And Mycroft also knew when the D. I. needed a holiday from self-control and keeping subordinates in line and on track. When he needed Mycroft to take charge and say where and when and how. Mycroft understood all this perfectly well without the words.

But tonight, Mycroft could not deduce the meaning of "I . . . I . . .," nor pull a verb from Greg's mouth, no matter how determined and insistent his tongue.

So he watched and waited.

Greg always removed his wedding ring and placed it on the table in the foyer before he pulled Mycroft into the bedroom, and this time was no different. He sucked and nibbled Mycroft's shoulders and neck. He dragged thick, calloused fingertips up and down the sensitive white skin under Mycroft's arms and the even more sensitive dark crease between thigh and scrotum. Mycroft craved this slow, quiet preparation. This was what he saw and felt when he let himself dream about Greg. Because this was the frisson of anticipation. He knew that on the other side of these lazy, familiar tickles and tastes would be urgent friction; wetness, sliding, pounding; and both of them coming undone.

As in other areas of his life, Mycroft had to admit that he enjoyed the negotiations, bluffs, and brokering beforehand as much as the completed transaction. And he didn't mind the compromises and secrets. If the ultimate goal was worthwhile, there was no shame in compromise. And he certainly was used to protecting confidences. The hidden spaces where Greg's hands and lips and tongue had teased and breached were among Mycroft's most precious secrets--secrets he'd kept from Sherlock, from John, and from two women Greg loved.

Mycroft was surprised, but accommodating this time, when Greg rolled the condom not onto his own heavy, leaking cock--but onto Mycroft's. Then Mycroft felt his own fingers and phallus covered with sweet-scented lubricant. Greg guided and groaned, urging Mycroft to spread him wide and press his fingers deeper. That groan, so low and primal, set Mycroft on the sharp edge of climax as soon as he heard it.

Mycroft hesitated, mustering self-control, closing his eyes and rubbing his cheek against the soft hair of Greg's calf and thigh, then tasting the D. I.'s cock with just the triangular pink tip of his tongue. Greg tugged at Mycroft's freckled shoulders impatiently, grabbing and squeezing the slim Holmes hips as Mycroft pushed in, setting a rhythm of thrust and release, skin slapping on skin. In minutes Mycroft was gasping and laughing and breaking apart, scrambling to squeeze Greg's prick and shatter him into a thousand quivering pieces too.

They settled finally into a comfortable, familiar pose, Mycroft's cheek against Greg's shoulder. Greg's arm thrown lightly, but possessively over Mycroft's pink chest.

 

* * * * *

 

"That was . . . Thank you, Greg. I needed . . . Well, after everything, and Sherlock and the doctors . . ."

"I'm not going home, Mycroft."

"What? You can stay the night? Are you sure? That would be lovely." Mycroft smiled and patted Greg's arm gratefully.

"I don't mean tonight. I mean ever. I'm going to tell Molly."

Silence.

"I can't think of what to say. There are too many questions I should ask you, and I don't know where to begin. I'm afraid you aren't thinking clearly because of all that's happened, and you don't mean it, and . . ."

"I'm thinking very clearly and it _is_ because of all that's happened. It's all going to end, Mycroft. We're all going to leave this world eventually, aren't we? I could see that in the room today while you were waiting to find out about John and Sherlock. It's not right to waste the time we have."

Mycroft refused to speak. Or breathe. Just moved his arm around Greg's waist, pulling him a little closer.

"I don't want to hurt her. You know that. I think I really needed her--needed her to help me get through all that darkness when I got suspended and I thought Sherlock was really gone. I guess maybe she needed me too--we were comfortable together, like a family already. But I don't want to be living this lie anymore. I can't stay with her out of gratitude. And I don't want to keep hurting you either."

"I've told you that it's all right. I'm fine."

"But you deserve more. So does she. Molly should have the chance--before it's too late--to find someone who loves her like I can't. Like I love you."

Mycroft didn't move, didn't exhale for a few more moments. He hadn't had time to prepare for this. It was too much all at once. He wished just then that he was still on the other side of that sentence, anticipating the day--some day in the future--when Greg might say those banal, pop song words and declare that Mycroft meant more to him than the life he'd made with Molly. Now that he'd said it--now what?

Mycroft knew how to keep his desires, his needs in check--knew how to push them into a corner and wait. He didn't know quite what to do if the waiting and wanting were suddenly over. He'd stupidly let himself hope after Greg's divorce, and those hopes had been crushed. Now . . . he wasn't sure he could bear it if this wasn't real. Surely, it couldn't be real.

Greg laughed softly, feeling Mycroft's heart racing and his skin going cold. He pulled the duvet up to cover them both.

"It's okay. I know you need to think on this for awhile. I know it's a lot to deal with. Don't say a word. Don't want to throw a Spaniard in the works of your orderly life, Mycroft . . ."

"I think you mean _spanner in the works."_

"It was a joke."

"Oh. Yes, of course." Mycroft blushed and stammered. "I . . . You know that I . . . want this. You and I. Permanently. Undeniably. I just worry that . . ."

"Don't. You don't need to worry this time. I made some stupid choices in my life, but not this one. If I can't be honest now, then when? This is the right thing to do. Now, let's just get a few hours of sleep, and then you can interrogate me tomorrow after you do us a big fry-up for breakfast."

Mycroft closed his eyes. He would let himself believe this was real just for now--just for a little while. There could be no great harm in that.

Just for a little while.

Eyes still closed, lips against Greg's neck, Mycroft spoke softly, but deliberately, "You must understand, unequivocally, that I will not be cooking a 'big fry-up.' A gentleman is defined by the viscosity of his morning egg, Inspector Lestrade. And sausages and bacon are completely out of the question, given their effect on my waistline and your cholesterol. So we'll begin our partnership with a lesson in healthy cookery."

"No bacon? That could be a deal-breaker. Jesus, what am I getting myself into?" chuckled Greg.

"Much more than you bargained for, I'm sure."

 

**Author's Note:**

> _Mycroft's remark about egg viscosity was stolen directly from a Mark Gatiss tweet. Too irresistible to ignore._


End file.
